


Where the Sun Goes to Rest (On a Wind That Calls Me But Not You)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (heavily implied), Angst, Grey Havens, M/M, Post-Quest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Grey Havens, ambiguous - Freeform, and pretend frodo stays in the shire and is happy and heals, so y'all can do what i do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22129933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: The path Westwards will heal him, he thinks.But that journey must be made alone.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Where the Sun Goes to Rest (On a Wind That Calls Me But Not You)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【中文翻译】风在召我前去（Where the Sun Goes to Rest (On a Wind That Calls Me But Not You)）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803283) by [SeaSlience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaSlience/pseuds/SeaSlience)



> considering i spend pretty much all my existence pretending that the grey havens doesn't exist and frodo stays in the shire with sam and heals and gets better and everything is good, i went and wrote this.
> 
> a good bit of angst to really start 2020 right, huh.

There is not much he will take with him when he heads West, for there is not much he wishes to bring. The things he once had no longer feel like his own. Bag End feels like the house of a stranger, as though he is an impostor. A fraud. He does not belong here, not anymore. He must go to the West, sail across the Sundering Sea. Maybe there, amongst the elves, he will find what he is looking for.

But what is he looking for? Peace? Happiness? Healing? Why isn't the Shire enough? Why isn't what he already has, what he's been given, enough?

The ring had been destroyed. ( _but not by your hand,_ a traitorous voice in his head whispers, words like a smothering of starless night) Middle Earth had been saved. But his wounds won't heal and the scars won't fade. It's cold. The sun sets West and he must follow it there.

Sam is aware that he is leaving. Of course he is. He has seen the pack, seen the words that go unsaid in Frodo's eyes.

(He is reminded of The Conspiracy, so long ago, in a different time. He had always been awful at keeping things hidden, at least that hasn't changed)

They haven't spoken about it yet though. It will come up, soon. It must, for Frodo will not leave without saying goodbye.

But, now, it remains a secret. One that everyone already knows, but one that nobody wants to talk about. Something under wraps. Like sweeping dust under the carpet. It's still there and everyone knows it's still there, but for now it can be forgotten.

(But Frodo has swept too much under the carpet these last months. He's running out of room. The carpet isn't big enough and there's too much he's been trying to hide. He has to leave. There is no other way)

Life, upon their return, had never managed to return to what it had once been - or what Frodo remembered.

The scars laid on the Shire had run deep and even though the Mallorn tree was perhaps more beautiful than what had been lost, it was not the Party Tree. 

That had been destroyed. It would never come back, but it would be replaced.

(Replaced, he thinks. Take what is broken and replace it with something new. He wonders when he will get replaced. When his heart and mind will be made anew, free of the pain that follows him around like thunderous clouds. The West will remake him. It has to, for if it does not, what is the point of leaving?)

Maybe it was better, this way. The old things had grown back and the fields had been re-ploughed ready for planting. Bag End had been restored, the garden blooming once more.

But it was not the same, and it never would be.

How can he go back to being happy? How can everything go back to the way it was? It's a different time, a different world. Things are changing, maybe for the good. He has changed, and now there is nowhere for him to go back to.

Except for Sam.

Sam is still here, by his side, always. Sam, who's heart is big enough to hold the entire world, was beside him. _Is_ beside him.

On some days, when the pain wasn't so bad and the memories of their quest were not so clear, Frodo would see Sam outside in Bag End garden; whistling a tune. On days such as those, he felt as if things truly could go back to normal. As if he could heal.

Sam's hands, the hands that made colour in lifeless grey, that made light even amongst the darkest of shadows, could make life from death. They could make beauty from things they had lost.

Sometimes, he would sit beside Frodo. Hands brown under the sun, large, calloused. Dirt under the fingernails, creases in the palms. _Touch me_ , Frodo would want to say. _Touch me and heal me. Make me beautiful, like your garden._

Sometimes, Sam would look up at him with lights sparkling in his eyes. He would smile, cheeks dimpling and lips smooth and flushed. He would glance down, a flicker of his eyes to Frodo's mouth. A blush high on his cheekbones.

Frodo longed to take one of his hands, strong and warm and beautiful, and twine their fingers together, make it so you could not see where either one of them started; where either one of them ended. Together, always. Together, under the fire-lit parlour at Bag End. Together, at the blazing pits of Mount Doom. Together until the very end.

But then his shoulder twinges, or he sees the stump of his fourth finger (it catches him by surprise, sometimes. It does not hurt, not very often, but it often twinges with discomfort, as though it is not quite right. A reminder of what he could not do) Sometimes, he thinks that if Sam's touch brings life, then his only brings death. 

It's a depressing thought, one that makes him feel much like the lost fauntling who had arrived to Bag Shot Row all those many years ago. When he'd been left an orphan in an unfamiliar world, shipped off to an uncle he'd only met a few scant times.

He cannot help it though. It feels as if the ring is still on him. As if its touch has ruined him, destroyed him from the inside out. Sometimes he fears that he is poison and that everything he touches will become infected, trapped in the ceaseless unrest that he is in.

He still hears the ring, as well. Not very often, but it's there. Whispering.

Sometimes, he remembers its destruction and does not feel relief. He feels heartbreak, a pain like no other. Deep sadness, regret.

On some days, he regrets destroying it at all. And those days are the worst.

So he will go West. He will take his poison into the beyond, across the horizon and over the sea. Take it to the elves, where they can make him better. Where they can wipe it away, make it all better. (But elves are made of silver, like mithrill and beams of moonlight. They are the stars reflected in the water and the steamed breaths on a winter's morning. They are not gold. Not warm. Not like Sam)

So he sits with Sam and they do not speak of his packed bags. The dust stays under the carpet. But it is still there. Still lingering underneath.

Sam looks at him and Frodo sees the sun in his eyes.

He wants to kiss him. Run his hands between that gold-spun hair. Sam looks back at him. His eyes flicker down to his lips. 

The West calls him, the gulls cry overhead. 

"Sir, it ain't my place to say, but… must you leave?"

The dust is uncovered, the carpet is gone. Sam's voice is quiet, soft, lilting. Still shy, still uncertain, even though his name is amongst the greats and his deeds are sung in songs and told in stories that will be passed down for an eternity, he is still the humble little gardener with dirt under his fingernails and beams of light caught in his hair.

"I- take me with you. Please. Or stay… or-"

He gulps. His voice is trembling. His twists his hands in his lap. There is brightness in his eyes, shimmering at the redness which grows around the rims. 

If Frodo could stay in the Shire forever, he would.

_Live with Sam_ , he thinks. _Take him with you. Make a life with him Westwards. Stay here, in the Shire._

But his shoulder is cold, his skin feels like ice. And, although Sam is the sun, he does not warm him anymore

**Author's Note:**

> wow imagine me using more sun imagery when describing sam hahah


End file.
